Start Over
by LewisMistreated
Summary: Steve holds her hands and reminds her patiently, over and over, who he is. How many times has he done this now? And why can't he stop himself coming back? One-shot, based on Peggy's scene in TWS. Set between TFA and TWS.


He couldn't stop himself coming back.

He hovered in the doorway, waiting for the nurse to finish, eyes running over her again in the bed, mentally comparing her to how she had looked last time, and the countless times beforehand. It took chips out of his heart every time he noticed another crinkled line in her skin, another few grams of weight from her arms. He had more memories of her like this, now, than he had of her when they had been the same age.

The nurse said goodbye and made for the door, smiling in familiar compassion to Steve, who held the door open for her on her way out. He let it shut softly, stepping properly into the room now, one shoulder hunched and head ducked in shyness.

"Who's there?" Peggy called, blinking through a myopic blur. She was half-reclined on the white pillows, grey hair lying around her face. There was a book under her hands, faint sunlight warming the room through the thin curtains. Steve tried not to look at the neat array of pill bottles on one side of her bed. Was it cowardice, to try and forget?

He came closer, sat down in the too-small fold-up chair by the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands between them. "Hey, Peggy," he greeted softly, with a reserved smile.

She stared at him for a long moment, and he could never tell when recognition gave way to disbelief: if she knew him but didn't believe in him, or if she didn't know him at all. He wasn't sure which would be worse. But after those excruciating seconds, she asked, "Steve?"

It was always a question. He kept the smile up, answered without a wobble in his voice. The room was so quiet, his reply sounded small. "Yeah."

"Steve!" She was sure now, eyes filling with tears. "You came back! I never thought I'd see you..."

And there it was, that light that drew him back every week like a moth to a flame, knowing that he'd singe his wings but unable to resist it – the joy, the happiness that seemed to relieve her of a seventy-year bereavement, weight lifting from her shoulders as if taken by balloons. Here he was, back from the dead, and she was reaching for his hands, holding on as if to make sure he was real. He couldn't imagine being in her position, seeing someone he cared about so much, and had always assumed was gone...

For a moment they sat in silence, and he tried to enjoy the knowledge that she was happy. That was the reason he did this, right?

After a time, she sighed, released his hands, and said, "You've missed so much, you know. You're never going to catch up."

"Everyone wants me to look at something or other," he agreed. "Any ideas?"

She thought for a moment and then suggested, "You should keep a list."

Steve tried to give her a smile as shining as the first time she'd given him the thought, his little notebook burning a guilty hole in his jacket pocket. "That's a good call. I'll start one. But hey, what have you been up to?" He reached out to one of the framed pictured at her bedside. "You got married?"

Her expression softened fondly as she recalled. Some days she denied she was married at all; some days he was a colleague, or her boyfriend, or her fiancé. But she said, "Yes, I did. He was one of the men you rescued. I suppose I owe you thanks for that." There was a slight wryness in her tone.

If today she remembered her husband, today he would be her friend, and not the love she lost to the Arctic Ocean. "Well, I still owe you," he pointed out with a little humour in return. "You're the one who encouraged me to go. I might not have become any of who I am now without that."

"Oh, rubbish," she exclaimed, waving a hand at him. "I only gave you a shove."

"You gave me _confidence_," he disagreed. "You told me I could do things, when I'd spent my life with people telling me I couldn't—" He wanted her to know again, to understand how important she was, how much she would always matter. He realised she was staring at the wall, and when he reached out to touch her hand she looked back.

There was a moment's pause, before her croaking voice issued the quiet question again: "Steve?"

It had only been twenty minutes. He had another forty at most, less if she got tired. He gave her his brightest beam. "Hey, Peggy."

"Steve!" She struggled into a more upright position, reaching for his readily-proffered hands. "Oh, Steve, you're here! You promised me, didn't you? You promised you'd come."

"Of course," he agreed, smile weakening. Come on, he could do this. As long as she was happy... "You're my number one gal. I couldn't let you down..." His voice cracked, a moment of pain breaking through, and he fell silent immediately. He couldn't let her hear that. He held himself together rigidly.

"Oh, Steve..." she sighed again. "I'm sorry." She was looking at their hands, her thin, bony fingers. "I'm sorry for growing old without you..."

Her voice was breaking too, and there were the tears, but sad this time. He looked down, looked at her fingers alternated with his on the edge of her bed, the folds of age and the youth that might never go away.

His resolve was wavering. If seeing him upset her, maybe it was better if he went. But if he did, he had to leave her like this, unhappy... He didn't care if she might forget it, he wasn't here to make her sad.

"No way," he contradicted gently. "I'm a year older than you, remember?"

"Age isn't the same," the words caught in her throat, "as – growing old," she broke off, clearing her throat and swallowing.

Steve immediately got up and went to the side, pouring her a glass of water. He took the moment away from her gaze to compose himself. He consciously laid down the jug, though his stress made his hand clench. He placed the water by her bedside, sat back down, and crossed his arms, so that he could surreptitiously grip his own elbows for strength. His nails dug through the leather and he knew he ran the risk of leaving bruises, but he dared not let release, for fear of what else he might let go.

"Always a gentleman," she remarked dryly, picking up the glass carefully and taking a sip. "You'll find yourself a young woman..."

"Hey," he broke in. His voice was steady again. "I already got one. She's right here."

She shook her head, why was she shaking her head? Oh God, why did he still fear rejection, even knowing how this conversation went, even knowing she would always care about him? His heart dropped into his stomach as she said, "No, no, Steve. Don't live with me, in the past."

"Don't say that," he began to object, and she kept talking.

"You have to start over," she told him, voice weak but firm, the same pearl of wisdom she always pressed into his hand. "You have to..."

She trailed off. Steve stared fixedly at the floor, avoiding her gaze, unwilling to consider letting her go. He had few scraps of his old life left; how could he ever give up on her? She was the only person left that had lived with him, that would understand. After a long pause, he looked up. He saw her cloudy eyes on his face, and she gave a smile that he'd never seen before.

"Darling," she sighed.

He flinched. That was wrong. She never –

"How are the kids?" she asked, and it was like a blade that stabbed through his ribcage, a knife through butter, right to his defenceless heart, levering those cracks right open. She wasn't looking at him.

"I'm Steve, Peggy," he tried to correct her, half-hearted. His voice had cracked all the way through, now, the words sticking in his throat as he forced them out.

"Steve..." she repeated absently, and for a moment he felt a flicker-faint candle-flame hope, before she continued, "You remember Steve. Did I ever tell you? I knew him before..."

Was she happy, he demanded of himself, forcing himself to read her expression, was she happy? If she was happy like this, reliving ancient stories and holding the wrong hand, then he would stay. He could endure it, he would endure it, he had seventy years to make up for. His hands were shaking but she couldn't see them.

"I was going to teach him to dance," Peggy remembered with a faint smile, and she was leaning back, eyes drifting closed, she wasn't looking at him anymore, and so he didn't have to smile back.

He waited, until he was sure that she was peacefully asleep. He touched her hand gently in goodbye, silently got to his feet, and stole from the room. In the doorway he paused, looking once more, just in case – every time, just in case – it was the last time.

As he passed the front desk, the receptionist caught his eye, and held out a box of tissues. The staff had long since sworn to secrecy with him about the visits, but they were aware of the special difficulty of his relationship with Peggy. He thought for a moment about declining, but it was better safe here than to be where someone on the street could see. He was supposed to be a symbol of strength.

He sucked in a breath as deep as he could go, feeling the inflation push out his chest and straighten his shoulders and back, uncurling. He ran the tissue under his eyes, only now noticing that it was needed, and placed it in the wastepaper basket.

He smiled in polite thanks to the receptionist, and with a dip of his head as he passed, added, "See you next week."


End file.
